It Yet Remains To See
by lbrokaw24
Summary: Sequel to And All We Need of Hell. Teenage Sherlock and John deal with the aftermath of their encounter with Moriarty, but more troubles arise when Sherlock becomes involved in the villain's court case TW: self-harm, suicidal thoughts, and past sexual abuse.
1. Chapter 1

**Just an FYI this story won't make any sense unless you read the first part of the series: And All We Need of Hell**

John's favorite part of the day was waking up in the morning, the moment when he first opened his eyes and found Sherlock asleep next to him. He loved seeing Sherlock in this peaceful state, his body relaxed, his expression open and unguarded. Even better though, was watching as the boy stirred awake and gazed back at him, his pale, ethereal features drawn into a sleepy smile that clearly said, "You're still here. I still have you with me." Most days they took their time getting out of bed, rousing each other with nudges and cuddles and soft kisses until Mrs. Hudson hollered from the stairwell calling them down for breakfast.

The first morning they stumbled down to Mrs. Hudson's kitchen after the night on the rooftop, Dannie and Mrs. Hudson were sitting at the table watching the small television on the counter next to the toaster. On the screen, a young female journalist stood in front of the university campus and announced to her viewers, "The students and faculty of Westminster received shocking news this morning. According to incoming reports, one of Westminster's tenured professors has been identified as the kingpin of a notorious drug trafficking ring. Professor Moriarty was arrested last night and is now facing a myriad of charges that could earn a life sentence if he is convicted."

Mrs. Hudson closed her eyes and laid a hand over her fretful heart. "Oh thank goodness." She reached across the table for Dannie's hand and gave it a light squeeze. Then she called for Sherlock and John. "Boys," she hollered, "come see the news. You won't believe what's-"

She turned and saw that Sherlock and John were already standing in the kitchen. Mrs. Hudson and Dannie stared at them open-mouthed. The two boys were leaning on each other slightly, looking a bit battered and sleep-deprived but very glad to have made it home in one piece.

Finally Dannie spoke up and asked, "What the hell happened last night?"

John smiled wearily and wrapped an arm around Sherlock's waist. "Well, long story short, we're not dead."

That was hardly a sufficient explanation, but Dannie and Mrs. Hudson didn't wait for another one before they jumped up from the table and ran to them, enveloping Sherlock and John in a fiercely affectionate embrace.

Five minutes of hugging later, Sherlock was in the process of trying to figure out the gentlest way to disentangle himself from the circle of love. However, Dannie broke away first. "Dammit," she muttered. "We've gotta get moving or we're going to be late for school."

Sherlock shook his head fervently. "Nope. Nope, nope, nope, nope, I'm not going to school. I'm going back to bed."

"The teachers are going to be helping us review for our A-levels," Dannie insisted.

Sherlock huffed. "Honestly, as if I really need that."

Dannie rolled her eyes. "Alright, you don't have to pay attention, but you have to at least show up. You've skived off too many times already."

"Fine," Sherlock muttered with an impatient sigh. Then he turned to John. "You have an impeccable attendance record, John. You can stay home if you want to."

John grinned. "No, I'll come along. Seven hours of school is exactly what I need to recover from a near death experience."

After a quick breakfast, a shower, a change of clothes, and a bit of mothering from Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock and John followed Dannie out the door embarked on the journey to Paddington Academy. It felt a bit surreal joining the hustle and bustle of students going about their normal school day like a couple of soldiers coming home from the battlefield and returning to civilian life. They took a seat at the table near the window in Mrs. Turner's classroom and made a valiant attempt to stay awake. Eventually, though, John ended up leaning against Sherlock's shoulder, and Sherlock nestled his ear against the top of John's head. Halfway through the lesson, Mrs. Turner glanced at the back of the room and noticed that the two boys had dozed off.

Despite being inattentive as usual during the last few weeks of school, Sherlock received full marks on his A-levels. John's scores were impressive as well, but of course he had put much more effort into studying. They waited until after graduation to move the rest of John's stuff into 221B (Sherlock didn't have much that needed moving besides a box of clothes and shoes, some science textbooks, and Billy the skull). Once they were finished, John wanted to invite a few friends over to have a sort of graduation/house-warming party. Sherlock didn't really see the point, but he decided to humour him.

Irene, Molly, Mike, and Henry arrived at 221B that warm summer evening and found John and Dannie sitting outside on the front step.

Mike looked down at them quizzically and asked, "What's going on?"

"We just need to wait out here a few minutes," Dannie answered. "Sherlock is busy securing the flat." All four of them raised an eyebrow, and so John explained further, "He's just cleaning up his experiments and making sure there isn't anything infectious or corrosive or flammable lying around."

As they stood there processing this, Sherlock opened the door and announced. "You can come in now. The apartment is safe."

The tiny flat was a bit crowded with seven people milling about in the sitting room. A six-pack of beers was passed around, but Dannie opted for a soda instead since it was medically inadvisable for her to drink. Sherlock only took a few sips from his bottle to resist the impulse to climb the furniture. The discussions going on around him about plans for the summer and who was going to what university were rather dull. Still, he had promised John that he would do his best to be sociable tonight, and so he walked up to Molly and interrupted the conversation in the politest way he could manage.

"Sorry things didn't work out with Tom," Sherlock said, not bothering to keep his voice down.

Molly blinked at him, slightly taken aback by this deduction, but she recovered quickly. "Um, thanks." She took a long sip from her beer. "I'm honestly not that upset about it. At least now I can focus on my studies. I'm thinking about becoming a pathologist."

Sherlock nodded. Molly's infatuation with him was still glaringly obvious, but most likely that would diminish over time. It was possible that someday they could be very good friends. "Maybe then I can come to you for lab specimens instead of bribing the janitorial staff at Bart's morgue to let me sneak in there at night."

John furrowed his brow. "Is that how you got the bag of ears in our fridge? You told me those were borrowed!"

Sherlock shrugged. "In a manner of speaking."

Despite his antisocial tendencies, Sherlock handled most of the evening fairly well. He did his best to listen and contribute somewhat relevant comments to the dialogue, and only very occasionally did he retreat to the corner to play the violin or have a telepathic conversation with Billy the skull. By nine o'clock, however, he was slumped on the sofa completely zoned out. John watched him worriedly from across the room, the chatter of the others fading into white noise. It occurred to him then that maybe being in a crowded flat reminded Sherlock of when he lived with Jim.

John was on the verge of calling it a night and sending everyone home. Then he saw Dannie wander over to the sofa and whisper something to Sherlock. In response he got to his feet and muttered, "Alright, hop on." Dannie stood up on the couch cushions and clambered onto Sherlock's back as he hooked his arms under her knees and headed towards the door.

As he walked past, Irene called after him, "Where are you going?"

Dannie answered, "We're going across the universe. BRB."

John stood by the window and stared through the darkened glass as Sherlock stepped outside under the streetlamps with Dannie clinging to his shoulders like a baby koala. He downed the rest of his drink and turned to see Irene peering out the window as well. "What did Dannie mean by 'across the universe?'" Irene asked.

John sighed and set his empty bottle down on the desk. "They're taking a walk to Regent's Canal. Sherlock likes to go there to think."

Irene's eyes scanned over John's face. "Does it bother you that they're so close?"

"Not really, no," John responded. "It shouldn't bother you either. They just have an… understanding." He wasn't sure if Dannie had mentioned anything to Irene yet about what happened to her when she was little, but it wasn't his place to talk about her past, or Sherlock's past for that matter. "I just wish I knew what goes on in his head."

"And you think she knows?"

John shook his head. "Honestly, I don't think anybody knows."

Mike, Molly, and Henry stuck around for another hour. After they left, John and Irene waited outside on the steps for Sherlock and Dannie to come back. Just as Big Ben chimed quarter after ten, Sherlock reappeared on Baker Street with Dannie half-asleep on his shoulder. John opened the door to let them inside, and Sherlock set the small girl down in the hallway, steadying her as she swayed on her feet.

"I think it's time for bed," Irene said softly, taking Dannie by the hand and leading her towards the basement apartment.

Before bidding them goodnight, John interjected, "There's a vacant room upstairs if you ever feel like sleeping someplace, you know, above ground."

Dannie blinked drowsily and grinned at him and Sherlock. "Thanks, but I'd rather not be woken up in the middle of the night by the sound of you two going at it."

John laughed at this comment to hide the uneasy feeling it gave him. Truth be told, he and Sherlock hadn't made love since the night in the hotel. Given everything they'd been through recently, John figured that he ought to leave it up to Sherlock to initiate physical intimacy, but they had yet to move beyond snogging and cuddling.

As they settled under the covers in their bedroom, John eyed Sherlock's long-sleeved t-shirt. "You know, you wouldn't have to wear long sleeves to bed if you didn't set the thermostat so low."

Sherlock shrugged. "It's what I'm used to."

John slid his thumb under Sherlock's sleeve and brushed over the small red heart. He had filled the drawing back in once the cigarette burn on Sherlock's wrist had properly healed. The boy's arm was covered with a collection of other scars that still stood out against his porcelain skin, but there were no new cuts. As John stroked his wrist gently, Sherlock cupped John's cheek and studied his face like he was cataloguing every detail, something he often did before going to sleep.

John looked back at him and asked, "Why do you do that?"

"I want you to be the last thing I see before I close my eyes," Sherlock whispered, "so that you'll be with me in my dreams. My subconscious is a scary place to be alone."

With a pang in his chest, John stroked back Sherlock's dark curls and kissed his temple. "If you can't find me, just wake up and I'll be right here." He wrapped his arms around Sherlock and listened to his breathing slow as the boy drifted to sleep. This, simply being close, would be enough for now. Everything was fine.

Wasn't it?


	2. Chapter 2

John learned quickly that it was a dangerous thing for Sherlock to be bored. They had two and a half months until they started at Cambridge (the campus was about an hour away by train, but it was still a better option than Westminster), and John could only hope that the curriculum there would be challenging enough to provide the genius with a sufficient distraction. In the meantime, though, the occasional experiment wasn't enough to keep Sherlock's mind from running off the rails. The day that Sherlock started throwing knives at the walls, John decided it was time to call Lestrade.

"I don't have any new cases for him," Lestrade said as soon as he picked up the phone. "My whole division is still sorting out the Moriarty case."

"Are you sure there's nothing you can do to keep him busy?" John asked. "He's starting to throw knives at the walls."

Lestrade sighed. "Okay. Why don't you two come down to the station?"

The inside of New Scotland Yard was a like a beehive with all the Yarders buzzing around hard at work. Taking care not to draw too much attention from his fellow police officers, Lestrade led Sherlock and John through the crowded hallways to his office.

"The deal still stands," Lestrade said, closing his office door. "No crime scenes until you turn eighteen, and even then we'll have to keep it on the down-low."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at Lestrade's attempt to use teenage slang. "Can I bring John with me? His medical training will probably be quite useful."

"You want me to come with you to crime scenes?" John asked.

"Of course," Sherlock responded. "I'll need a crime-solving partner with people skills to diffuse the tension when my deductions start to annoy the Yarders."

Lestrade chuckled. "Well, for now this will have to do." He picked up a box from his desk and handed it to Sherlock. "I went through our cold cases and picked out some of the more interesting ones."

Sherlock's face lit up like a kid on Christmas morning as he took the box and ran with it into the filing room adjoined to Lestrade's office. John and Lestrade peeked through the doorway and saw Sherlock sitting cross-legged on the floor surrounded by filing cabinets in the process of spreading the cold case files across the carpet.

"Let's leave him to it then," Lestrade muttered. He wandered back over to his desk and grimaced at the tall stack of paperwork waiting for him. "Have a seat, John," he said, motioning to the sofa. "Do you want something to drink? The coffee in the break room is decent."

John remained standing. "Maybe later. He won't leave until he's solved all those cases, and so we're going to be here for a while."

Lestrade sank down into his swivel chair and rubbed his forehead. "I really should have thought this through."

John shuffled his feet and looked around the small office until his eyes locked onto a newspaper clipping pinned to a bulletin board on the wall. Above the small print was a photo of Moriarty glaring at the cameras with a twisted smile. John's hands clenched involuntarily as he walked closer the bulletin board to read the article. When he got to the paragraph that listed the crimes that Moriarty had been charged with, it only angered him further.

Lestrade looked up from his desk and noticed John's tense stance. "Everything alright, John?"

John took a deep breath to steady his voice. "I'm hoping the press made a mistake."

"What are you talking about?"

"This," John said pointing to the article. "Why isn't Moriarty being charged with what he did to Sherlock?"

Lestrade shot a quick glance at the filing room. Then got up and approached John cautiously. "The thing is, John, we've already got enough to put Moriarty away for the rest of his life, and we didn't want Sherlock to have to be involved in this case."

"And by 'we' you mean you and Mycroft."

Lestrade cleared his throat and nodded. "Yeah, him too."

John glared at the black-and-white photograph. "The world should see that monster for what he is. Sherlock already told you everything you need to know."

Lestrade sighed wearily. "That was an informal meeting. If I wanted to add those charges, I would have to file an official report, and Sherlock would have to testify at the trial. I just… don't know if it's worth putting him through all that."

John was silent for a minute. He appreciated the fact that Sherlock had people in his life like Lestrade and Mycroft who would go to any lengths to protect him, to make him feel safe. There were times that Sherlock needed that from John, but there were also times when he simply needed John to believe in him. "I know he's been through a lot," John said firmly, "but he's not fragile. He can do it. If he doesn't want to, then that's his choice, but he should be allowed to decide for himself."

Realizing that he'd been properly told off by a teenager, Lestrade gave in. "Alright, I'll ask him."

A deep voice interrupted the dialogue. "Don't bother, Lestrade. I'll do it." Sherlock was standing in the doorway to the filing room.

John glanced up at Lestrade and whispered. "Just so you know, he has ears like a fox. He can overhear a conversation from across the room. If he's paying attention, that is."

"I can still hear you," Sherlock muttered with a smirk.

Lestrade chuckled and shook his head. "Alright, I'll keep that in mind." Then his expression sobered. "Would now be a good time to…?"

One step ahead of him, Sherlock took a seat at the sofa across from Lestrade's desk. "No use putting it off."

While Lestrade rifled though his desk drawers for the correct documents and his tape recorder, John settled down next to Sherlock on the sofa. He wasn't sure if Sherlock wanted him to hold his hand this time, but he stayed close just in case.

Thankfully the whole process didn't take very long. Lestrade asked for a brief statement and followed up with a few questions, and he and John listened quietly as Sherlock repeated all the painful details of the physical and sexual abuse he suffered at Moriarty's hands. The boy spoke calmly and steadily, which most people would take as a good sign. John, however, knew that it was never a good sign when Sherlock was that calm, because usually it meant that he was hiding something.

Finally, Lestrade asked the question that Sherlock didn't want to answer.

"One last thing," Lestrade began. "A month ago when you were in Moriarty's apartment again, did anything happen before the police arrived?"

Sherlock hunched his shoulders and ran a hand through his hair. "Do you really need to know that?"

"If it's relevant to the case, then yes."

Sherlock could feel John tense up beside him. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "That night, after Moran dragged John outside…the other two took my clothes off and handcuffed me to the bed, and then… Jim…put his hands on me."

John felt all the air being squeezed from his lungs. "Jesus Christ," he breathed.

"Nothing else happened," Sherlock insisted. "Jim was expecting a client at midnight, but at the last minute he changed his mind and cancelled on him. Then he brought me up to the roof, and… well, you know the rest."

Lestrade turned off the tape recorder before he said in a low voice, "You are aware that what you just described is considered a form of sexual assault."

Sherlock's expression became calm and unreadable once more. "If you've been paying attention, you know that I've experienced much worse."

That was about all John could take. Up until then he had managed to keep his volatile emotions under control, but now he was like a ticking time bomb ready to explode. He rose from the sofa on shaky legs and said quietly, "Sorry, would you two excuse me for a second? I just need to…step out for a bit."

With his quick, bow-legged soldier's gait, John ambled over to the filing room and closed the door behind him. He marched towards the back of the room and stopped near the last row of filing cabinets. Breathing heavily, he leaned his forehead against the cold metal side of the cabinet at the end of the row. Soon enough, though, his fists made contact with the cold metal as well.

"GODDAMN SON OF A BITCH!"

The impact of John's fists against the cabinet punctuated every word. Still, even after he had screamed himself hoarse, even after his knuckles were bruised, he kept throwing punches. He didn't stop until he felt a pair of long, reedy arms pull him back.

Sherlock was holding him.

The boy rested his chin on John's shoulder and held him tight, his thin frame absorbing the shockwaves of pain and rage vibrating through John's body until the shorter boy grew still. Finally, John's mind cleared, and he realized how odd the situation was.

"God, this is so backwards," John whispered hoarsely. "I should be the one comforting you, not the other way around."

"It's alright, John," Sherlock murmured, still holding him. "You're much more in touch with your emotions than I am."

Without breaking the contact, John slowly turned around to face him. He reached up and stroked Sherlock's cheek. "It would be okay, you know, if you allowed yourself to break down a bit. You have every right to."

Sherlock met his gaze hesitantly as he answered. "I'm not really sure that I know how."

Just then Lestrade cleared his throat behind them. "You two okay?"

"We're fine," Sherlock responded, keeping his eyes fixed on John.

"Well, um, here." Lestrade held out the box to him again. He had gathered all the cold case files and returned them to their container. "If you promise not to get any scorch marks or chemical spills on these, I suppose you can take them home with you."

Sherlock turned to Lestrade and accepted the box. "Alright, but I hope at least some of these are challenging. The first few that I looked at were so simple, I'm surprised even you lot couldn't solve them."

With that, Sherlock stalked out of Lestrade's office. John waited until the boy was well out of earshot before he looked up at Lestrade and said, "He means thank you."

Lestrade gave him a small smile. "I know."

* * *

As soon as the cab stopped in front of 221B, Sherlock dashed inside while John stayed behind to pay the cabbie. Upstairs, Sherlock threw down the box of cold case files on the coffee table and kneaded at the inside of his elbow with his thumb. He was feeling a familiar tingling sensation in his arm. Breathing deeply, Sherlock glanced at the mantle above the fireplace. John would be disappointed if he knew, but there was nothing else for it.

Hidden inside Billy the skull was the bottle of Valium that Sherlock managed to smuggle out of his parents' house. He unhinged Billy's jaw and snatched the bottle out before swallowing two pills and returning the bottle to its hiding place. Then Sherlock settled down on the sofa and waited for the drug to take effect. It wouldn't do to knock himself out right now. He just needed something to help him calm down and focus on the Work. He had to put John's mind at ease, to prove to him that he could handle this, that his past didn't affect him anymore.

 _But we both know that's not quite true,_ a sinister voice whispered in his head.

"Shut up," Sherlock muttered, pressing his palms against his eyelids.

"You alright?" John asked as he stepped into the flat.

"Fine," Sherlock answered. "Just talking to myself." He picked up the box and started rifling through the files, the tingling sensation in his arm gradually ebbing away.

John tarried near the doorway. "Well, if you have something you want to talk about, you can talk to me."

"I don't need to talk," Sherlock said shortly. "I need to get to work."

It wasn't the answer John was hoping for, but it was the one he had expected. "Okay, then. I'm going to make a quick run to Tesco's, because we're out of milk again. Text me if you need anything."

Sherlock continued sorting through the files, but before John left, he called after him, "Be sure to get some ice for your hands. It's painful just looking at them."

John glanced down at his bruised knuckles and made a mental note to add ice to his shopping list.

After leaving Tesco's, John got on the tube laden down with shopping bags, but he didn't take the route directly back to Baker Street. Instead, he rode the rails for about half an hour, taking some time alone to think. As he rested his bruised knuckles against the sizable bag of ice he had bought, John closed his eyes and mulled over everything that had happened that day. It was clear to him now that Sherlock's past was still hurting him more than he let on. Most people in John's position would try to get him to talk to a professional, but he didn't know how helpful that would be. The last psychiatrist Sherlock was sent to had labeled him a sociopath. Eventually John noticed that the ice was starting to melt at an alarming rate, and so there was nothing left for him to do except go home and try once more to get Sherlock to talk to him.

The sun was beginning to set by the time John returned to the front steps of 221B. His limbs ached as he carried the shopping bags up the stairs, but he moved quickly, his stomach fluttering uncomfortably with anticipation.

"I'm home," John announced as he entered the quiet flat. Assuming that Sherlock was still working, he hurried to the kitchen and put away the shopping on his own. When he walked back into the sitting room, however, John saw that the box on the coffee table was empty, and all the documents had been taped to the walls, several of them clustered together in groups.

"I'm guessing some of these murders are linked," John remarked. He waited for the typical response of "Obviously," but he was met with silence. "Sherlock?"

John drew near the sofa and noticed that Sherlock was lying in a strange position. He was on his back, and his wrists were level with his neck as if they had been locked in place. The boy's long, slender legs were trembling, and his breathing was harsh and erratic. Suddenly, Sherlock's head jerked to the side as if someone had slapped him.

The realization hit John like a punch in the gut. Sherlock was having a flashback.

Heart pounding in his chest, John knelt down by the sofa and searched frantically for a way to bring Sherlock out of it. Tentatively, he reached out and touched Sherlock's hand. When the boy didn't pull away, John stroked the back of his hand gently and tugged it towards him, pressing Sherlock's fingertips against his neck, right over the pulse point.

A few heartbeats later, Sherlock's breathing slowed and his eyes refocused. When he gazed back at John, though, he looked completely lost.

"John," Sherlock whispered, "where am I?"

The question broke John's heart into a thousand little pieces. "You're home," he said softly. "You're safe."

Sherlock glanced around the room and slowly took in his surroundings until he finally understood what had happened. Still shaking slightly, he pulled his hand out of John's grasp and turned on his side towards the back of the sofa.

"Sorry," Sherlock whispered, hunching in on himself.

"It's alright, Sherlock." John curled up beside him on the sofa and wrapped his arms around him. "Everything's alright."

John stayed there with him all night, whispering this comforting refrain over and over again. He wished the words were true, but deep down he knew they weren't.


	3. Chapter 3

In the weeks preceding the trial, Sherlock and John spent most of their time on the sofa. It was a tight fit, but John had to stay close to him at night to know when he was having a nightmare because Sherlock never screamed. The only indication John got that something was wrong was when Sherlock started shaking. During the day, John turned on the telly and tried to find something interesting enough to distract him, but the boy lay still and unresponsive with his upper body cradled in John's lap. It was a difficult task getting Sherlock to eat. John tried not to seem overbearing or controlling, but it worried John the way he could feel Sherlock's ribs through his t-shirt.

One night when John was taking out the rubbish to the bins in the alley, he stopped for a minute to and leaned against the wall. He hadn't realized how much weight was lying on his heavy heart until he allowed himself this short break to be alone and just breathe. However, he wasn't as alone as he thought.

Light spilled out into the dark alleyway as Dannie opened the back door Mrs. Hudson's kitchen. "John? What are you doing out here?"

John sank down to the cold pavement. "Just thinking about how I should be thrown out with the rubbish considering how useless I am."

"Oh dear Lord," Dannie muttered. "I'm gonna go put the kettle on. When you're done wallowing, come inside and we'll have a chat."

The door creaked shut, leaving the alley dark once more. John exhaled slowly and rubbed his eyes. He knew feeling sorry for himself wasn't doing anyone any good, but he was honestly at a loss for what to do, and he didn't want to burden Dannie with his troubles. Still, the fact remained that he desperately needed someone to talk to.

By the time John stumbled into the kitchen and collapsed into a chair, Dannie was busy arranging the milk, sugar bowl, teapot, and a couple of mugs on the table.

"Has Mrs. Hudson gone to sleep yet?" John asked, squinting under the bright fluorescent lights.

"Yeah," Dannie answered. "She's a light sleeper, so we probably ought to be quiet." John murmured his thanks as she handed him his mug. Preparing it the usual way, he added milk to the tea, but he neglected the sugar bowl. "I don't know how you can stand drinking coffee or tea without any sugar in it," Dannie said quietly, emptying a third of the sugar bowl into her mug.

John smiled. "My sister used to say that it's because I'm sweet enough as it is, but I'm pretty sure she was being sarcastic."

Dannie giggled. "Yeah, I can see that. You're actually a bit intimidating, especially when you're angry."

"God, I hope I don't scare you."

"No, I mean that in a good way," Dannie reassured him. "You're not the peacemaking type. You're a fighter, and you're fiercely protective of the people you care about."

From the expression on John's face, Dannie could tell he was thinking about his loved ones, especially the one lying practically comatose in the flat above them. Her big brown eyes shone with concern when she asked, "How is he doing?"

"Not good," John said truthfully. "I'm not sure anymore if encouraging him to testify was the right thing to do. Maybe Lestrade was right, and he would have been better off not getting involved in the case."

Dannie shook her head. "No, you were right. The best thing for Sherlock right now is getting him to talk about what happened to him, even if it seems like it's doing more harm than good. Until now the only way he's known how to deal with it is by repressing it or numbing it away by hurting himself."

John shuddered. "I'm still scared that he'll hurt himself again, or that this will push him too far."

Dannie stared down at her mug and was silent for a moment. Then she looked up at him and said, "John, you know quite a bit about how the human body works, right?"

Unsure of where this question was leading, he nodded. "Yes. I've studied the subject pretty thoroughly."

"Then you know why it hurts when you warm up an extremity that's been exposed to the cold. Low temperatures make your blood vessels constrict to preserve body heat, and the lack of blood supply to your nerves causes numbness. Then when you get warm again, those blood vessels dilate and circulation returns, which causes your nerves to send pain signals to your brain." Dannie sipped her tea. "It's enough to make you want to freeze up again, to become completely numb, but if you do that for too long it can cause tissue damage. In order to deal with pain, you have to allow yourself to feel it."

Finally understanding the point of Dannie's monologue, John rubbed his eyes and gazed at her across the table with fondness. "You're brilliant, you know that? I can see how you and Sherlock became friends."

The girl bit her lip nervously. "It's actually a bit more complicated than that."

"Do you want to tell me about it?"

Dannie sighed resignedly and downed the rest of her tea before she launched into the story. "When Sherlock started his first year of sixth form, his parents had to convince the school to let him skip a grade. They gave the excuse that he had missed the past year because he had a serious illness, which was believable because he honestly looked like he had been sick for a long time. The kid was skin and bones. Of course, other people came up with their own theories. Most of them said that he had been locked up in a mental institution. He didn't speak. I think he was selectively mute, but he still managed to scare the hell out of people with the way he looked at them like he knew everything about them. I hate to admit it, but I was a little scared of him too. That changed, though, the day I did this," she said, pointing to her scar.

"I was at my locker getting my books out for the next class, and some random bloke came up to me and pinned me against the wall. I don't really remember what he said to me. It was something idiotic and perverted. Next thing I knew he was snogging me. He only stopped because Sherlock threw a squash ball at his head." Dannie smiled. "It was actually kind of funny. The thing bounced off of the guy's ear. I would have laughed, but at that point I was in the middle of a seizure. As soon as he saw Sherlock, the guy bolted. Then Sherlock walked up to me. He looked like he was trying to ask if I was okay but couldn't get the words out. I wouldn't have been able to answer anyways. I just ran away and hid in the loo."

"I had thought about doing this before," she muttered, pointing to her scar again. "I knew it was a terrible idea, but I wasn't thinking clearly at the time. It was probably also a terrible idea to walk to the next class with my face sliced up." Dannie paused a moment before she said, "The thing is, Sherlock was in that classroom."

"You can imagine everyone's reaction. The teacher screamed her head off, and all the other students just sat there and gaped at me, but Sherlock calmly got up from his desk and walked with me to the nurse's office. He actually had to carry me most of the way, because I could hardly stand and I was dripping blood everywhere. The nurse screamed her head off too when she saw me, but at least she had the sense to call 999. The paramedics let Sherlock ride in the ambulance with me, which was fortunate because I had about three more seizures on the way to the hospital, and Sherlock held my hand the whole time. Everyone around me looked at me like they were horrified and repulsed when they saw what I did, but Sherlock seemed as though he understood, as though he was familiar enough with that kind of trauma to not be shocked by it."

"Mrs. Hudson came to the hospital, and the first thing she saw when she walked in was Sherlock sitting in the waiting room with my blood all over him. He must have looked a fright, because she started dabbing at him with a paper towel and yelling for the nurses to help him. They told her that he was fine and that he had just come in with another trauma victim, and she asked them if that was me. Apparently the school had called her and said that there had been some kind of accident, but nobody was willing to tell a kind old lady in her sixties that her foster daughter had carved up her face, and so it was left up to the kid who couldn't talk to explain to her what happened. Sherlock wrote it down for her on a piece of paper. After she read it, she cried on his shoulder for about an hour, this strange boy she just met. He finally managed to calm her down by turning over the paper and writing on the back, 'Dannie's going be okay. She hasn't lost her mind. She's just scared.' When Mrs. Hudson let me read that, all I could think was, 'How did he know?'"

"I stayed home for about two weeks until they took my stiches out. During those two weeks, Mrs. Hudson invited Sherlock over for dinner a few times. Her intention was probably to try to get as much food into him as possible. He still didn't speak a word, but she treated him like he was one of her own kids. To this day she has never believed all that 'high-functioning sociopath' nonsense for a minute. On my first day back at school, I was really nervous about walking through the halls with everyone staring at me like I was a freak. Then I ran into Sherlock while he was on the way to class, and I heard his voice for the first time. What he said was, 'Just so you know, you're not the most fucked-up kid in this school. That title has already been taken.'"

John chuckled and shook his head. "Well that was tactful."

"I'm pretty sure he meant that to be comforting, and in a way it was, but it also worried me a bit. I can't imagine what it's like for someone like him to live with PTSD, what with his superhuman senses and eidetic memory. We were decent company for each other, I suppose, but he must have still been terribly lonely trapped inside his head. You were the first person to get him to really open up."

Dannie sat quietly and allowed John to finish his tea as he processed this. Then she got up and placed their empty mugs in the sink. "I think it's time to turn in for the night."

Careful not to wake up Mrs. Hudson, the two of them stepped quietly into the hallway. Then before Dannie turned to go downstairs, she flung her small arms around John's middle and hugged him tightly. "I'm thankful everyday for the day he met you."

With a glow of warmth in his chest, John smiled and hugged Dannie back. "I am too." He leaned down and kissed the top of her head lightly and bid her goodnight.

Though his conversation with Dannie had been considerably helpful, John's heart grew heavy again as he climbed the stairs. The trial was tomorrow, and so this was his last chance to talk to Sherlock and make sure that he was really ready to go through with it. Worst-case scenario, the court would postpone the trial if they decided that Sherlock wasn't currently fit to take the witness stand. Gathering his courage, John walked into the dimly lit sitting room. As it turned out, though, Sherlock wasn't on the sofa where he had left him.

John heard a clattering noise and turned towards the hallway. From the sound of it, Sherlock had taken the bag of ice from the freezer and was emptying it into the bathtub. John sighed and collapsed onto the sofa. Hopefully conducting an experiment would keep Sherlock's mind off things for now, and there would be time to talk to him in the morning after dealing with whatever horrors had been left in the bathtub. Utterly exhausted, John lay down and closed his eyes.

He wasn't asleep for very long, however, before he woke up shivering. Bleary-eyed and groggy from his brief nap, John got up and checked the thermostat. He blinked and squinted at the little blue light that read 15 °C. "Honestly, Sherlock," he called down the hallway, his voice rough with sleep, "is it really necessary to turn our whole flat into your own personal refrigerator?" He didn't get a response, but knowing Sherlock, he would probably take that question as rhetorical. Trying another approach he added, "I'm turning on the heat now." Still nothing. "Sherlock?"

The flat was eerily quiet, and the silence unnerved him. Small slivers of light shone through the cracks in the bathroom door as John slowly drew near it. He jostled the handle, but the door was locked. Panic rising in his chest, John knocked a few times and called Sherlock's name. _He's fine,_ John's mind supplied feebly. _He never answers me when he's working. He's fine. He hasn't hurt himself. He's fine._

Even as these thoughts whirled around inside his head, John banged harder on the door and yelled, "Sherlock, I swear to God, if you don't open this door right now I will break it down!" All John heard was the sound of his own heart pounding in his ears as he backed up to the wall and rushed forward, throwing his shoulder against the door until the handle broke off and it swung open.

At first glance the bathroom appeared empty. Hundreds of ice cubes drifted on the surface of the bathtub, which was filled to the brim with water. The moment John stepped forward to get a closer look, his whole world came to a crashing halt.

Sherlock was lying at the bottom of the tub.

"Oh my God," John yelped, flinging himself against the edge of the tub to pull the boy out. For the most terrifying five seconds of his life, John thought he was too late until he heard Sherlock coughing and gasping.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock. Jesus fucking Christ." He lifted Sherlock's ice-cold, naked body out of the water and laid him down on the tile. Sherlock was shivering uncontrollably, and his lips were tinged blue, but he was still conscious. John needed to warm him up as quickly as possible. With trembling hands, he stripped off his damp clothes and held Sherlock tightly to his chest.

As soon as he was steady enough to stand, John carried Sherlock into the bedroom. He climbed into bed and pulled the covers over both of them, keeping their bodies pressed together to try to restore circulation.

"You promised," John whispered brokenly. "You promised me you would never do that."

For the first time in what seemed like ages, John heard Sherlock's voice, as strained and unsteady as it was now. "I wasn't… I wasn't trying to kill myself."

"Then what were you trying to do? You could have gone into hypothermic shock and drowned."

Sherlock trembled and buried his face against John's shoulder. "I was just… trying to make it stop."

"Make what stop?" John asked, but they boy fell silent once more. "Sherlock, please. You can't keep hiding from me what's hurting you. I know it's hard, but I need you to trust me."

"I do trust you, John. I just," Sherlock swallowed, "I hate seeing what it does to you."

"It's alright, Sherlock. When someone you care about is in pain, then you feel it with them. That's how love works." John cupped Sherlock's cheek and tilted his face up towards him. "You've had to deal with this on your own for so long, but you're not alone anymore. We can get through this together, but only if you tell me what's wrong."

The shivering gradually lessened as Sherlock's core body temperature returned to normal. Sherlock lay still a while and studied John's face, reading the lines of worry etched in his features and the intense emotions radiating from those blue eyes with a ring of hazel around the middle. He couldn't look at him and say it.

Closing his eyes, Sherlock pressed his face against the pillow and whispered. "I can still feel his hands on me."

John exhaled slowly, his throat tightening. Tentatively, he reached up and stroked back Sherlock's damp curls. Then he planted a kiss on both of his eyelids. "Can you do something for me, Sherlock?" John said softly. He paused for a moment as the boy's eyes opened again. "Just keep your eyes fixed on me."

Sherlock's skin was still ice-cold and unable to sense John's touch. John gently brushed his thumb against his cheek. Then his fingers slowly moved down over his neck to his shoulder. John held his gaze, watching his face to make sure he wasn't causing the boy to tense up. Sherlock merely breathed deeply, his lips slightly parted. John slid his other arm underneath him and laid a hand on his back. After a few minutes, Sherlock's skin warmed enough under John's tender touch to feel his strong, gentle hands caressing him, holding him, protecting him.

"Go to sleep, love," John whispered, kissing his forehead. "I've got you."

John continued stroking his back until Sherlock drifted to sleep. Then he closed his eyes and succumbed to slumber as well. Whatever tomorrow would bring, they were going to face it together.


	4. Chapter 4

Daylight streamed through the windows as the day of the trial dawned on 221B. John stirred awake and found Sherlock asleep beside him, the soft morning light casting shadows in the valleys of his sharp cheekbones. The boy looked more peaceful than John had seen him in a long time. He was hesitant to wake Sherlock up, but someone else beat him to it.

There was a knock at the door, and John heard Mrs. Hudson call from the other side, "Woo-hoo. You boys awake yet? It's been ages since you've come downstairs for breakfast, and so I thought I'd bring it up for you."

Sherlock's eyes opened just as Mrs. Hudson stepped into the bedroom and found Sherlock and John lying naked under the covers. She blushed and apologized profusely. "Sorry, sorry. Should have asked if you two were decent." Hearing the soft pitter-patter of tiny footsteps behind her, she turned and said hastily, "Dannie, no. Don't come in here."

"Why? What's wrong?"

The girl appeared in the doorway and quickly covered her eyes with one hand once she saw the state that Sherlock and John were in, though she intermittently peaked through her fingers and giggled. Mrs. Hudson shushed her and said, "Come on, let's set this up in the kitchen. The table looks relatively clean."

After the door was shut, Sherlock and John looked at each other for about three seconds before bursting into laughter. Once they both calmed a bit, John sighed and rubbed his eyes. Then he gazed down at Sherlock and asked, "How are you feeling?"

"I'm okay," Sherlock answered, his mercurial eyes bright in the pale morning glow pervading the room. "I just wish I didn't have to leave this bed for the rest of the day."

"Me too," John muttered. "We can't keep Dannie and Mrs. Hudson waiting, though, or God knows what they'll think we're doing in here."

John crawled out from underneath the covers and went to the wardrobe in search of the proper courtroom attire, but while he was doing this, Sherlock stood up and wrapped the bed sheet around himself. By the time he was dressed, John walked into the kitchen and saw Sherlock sitting at the table wearing only the bed sheet as Mrs. Hudson said in an exasperated tone, "For goodness sake Sherlock, go put some clothes on."

"What for?" Sherlock murmured with a shrug. "Mycroft is coming over in an hour to bring me the suit that I'm supposed to wear today, though I don't see why it's necessary. I mean really, can you imagine me wearing a suit?"

"Well, it's better than walking around in a bed sheet," Mrs. Hudson quipped. "Honestly, at my time of life."

John grinned and took a seat at the table. He didn't bother to telling Sherlock that Dannie and Mrs. Hudson had already seen enough semi-nudity this morning. At least Sherlock was eating.

At nine o'clock Sherlock got dressed and walked into the sitting room in the immaculate black suit that Mycroft had brought to the flat. Then when he saw the last article of clothing Mycroft was holding, Sherlock shook his head fervently. "No, absolutely not. I refuse to wear a tie."

Accustomed to Sherlock's stubbornness, Mycroft sighed and said, "It's only for a couple of hours. You have to look presentable."

Sherlock huffed. "Why would I care about that?"

"You don't have to care. You just have to let me put it on for you."

The younger Holmes eventually gave in and allowed his brother to fasten the tie around his collar. As Mycroft arranged the silky black material, he asked quietly, "Are you quite certain that you don't want me to be present for the trial?"

"What I am certain of is that you and I both detest repetition," Sherlock muttered. "Surely you don't want to have to hear it all again."

I don't want you to have to hear it all again.

"Fair enough," Mycroft said, "as long as you understand that if you ever require anything from me, you only have to ask." Mycroft adjusted the knot and rested his hands on Sherlock's slim shoulders. "I'll always be there for you, whenever you need me."

Sherlock swallowed and met Mycroft's gaze. "I know."

John stood back and watched the emotional exchange between the two brothers. Then Sherlock tugged at his tie and said, "I might as well warn you, as soon as I get home this thing is going straight into a beaker of hydrochloric acid."

Mycroft rolled his eyes and glanced at John. "What's he like to live with? Hellish, I imagine."

John simply smiled and said, "I'm never bored."

* * *

Lestrade let Sherlock and John ride in the back of his squad car to Her Majesty's High Court of Justice. He gave the two boys some space while they sat at the bench outside the doors waiting for the prosecution to finish presenting evidence related to the murder and drug trafficking charges. Knowing that they would soon call Sherlock to the stand, John reached for Sherlock's hand and interlocked their fingers.

"No matter what happens today, I just wanted to tell you that I'm really proud of you," he whispered. "You amaze me. You always amaze me."

Sherlock nodded and held tighter to his hand. John knew that he must have been nervous if Sherlock was allowing him to have the last word.

Finally the doors opened and Sherlock was summoned. John reluctantly let go as Sherlock was ushered into the courtroom. Lestrade rested a hand on John's shoulder and steered him towards the stairs to the balcony.

The courtroom doors closed behind Sherlock with a resounding thud. He stared at the vast crowd of people filling the rows of seats in front of the imposing platform where the judge overlooked the room. Over in the defense section, Moriarty was leaning back in his chair and tapping his fingers on the table, apparently bored with the proceedings. However, when he turned and saw Sherlock standing in the aisle, he flashed a sinister smirk and straightened up in his chair as if he'd been eagerly awaiting this part of the event. Steeling his nerves, Sherlock crossed the room and took his place at the witness stand.

The prosecuting attorney began with a series of casual questions, such as Sherlock's name, how old he was, what he planned to do after secondary school, etc. It was a common method used to help put the witness at ease, but Sherlock simply found it annoying. Still he obliged and gave brief, concise answers as he waited for her to move on to more relevant questions.

Once this tedious process was over with, the attorney cleared her throat and asked. "Mr. Holmes, would you describe your relationship with the defendant as-"

"No, don't. Don't do that," Sherlock interrupted.

"I'm sorry?"

"Leading. You're leading the witness. The defense is going to object and the judge will uphold. Ask me how. How would I describe it?"

A few of the jury members glanced at each other in bewilderment. No doubt when they came here to listen to the victim's testimony, they had been expecting to see a timid and traumatized child, not this bold and brilliant, if somewhat impertinent young man who had the audacity to criticize the prosecutor's line of enquiry. It was almost impressive.

Starting again, the attorney asked, "How would you describe your relationship with the defendant?"

"I would hardly call it a relationship at all. I was fifteen years old for God's sake. Even with an IQ of 194, according to the law I was a minor and I didn't have the capacity to consent, not to mention the fact that I had no prior experience with sex or romantic attachments. I didn't understand those things or have any interest in them." Sherlock paused a moment to steady himself. "The day that I met Jim, I had just run away from home, and he offered me a place to stay. I assumed that the offer was that simple, that he was only interested in my mind. He had found me sitting in one of his chemistry classes at the university, and he told me that I knew more about the subject than any of his students. We stayed up late talking, and I was beginning to fall asleep on the sofa, but then he picked me up and carried me to the bedroom. It was obvious then that he expected sex in exchange for allowing me to stay there. I was a bit frightened by that idea, but I didn't want to go home."

"Jim could tell that I was distressed every time he took me to bed, but he told me it was perfectly normal for sex to hurt. I wish I had known then that was a lie. He started giving me heroin, which made the things he did to me significantly more tolerable, but it further impaired my ability to consent. It's possible that I could have figured out sooner how abusive the situation was if he hadn't kept me strung out all the time, but at least I never entertained any kind of delusion that he actually loved me. I didn't think that was possible for someone like me."

As Sherlock spoke, the audience shifted uncomfortably in there seats. Everything they'd heard so far was upsetting enough. The room fell completely silent, however, when the attorney asked her next question.

"And when did Mr. Moriarty start selling you?"

Sherlock glanced at the defense attorney, who was sitting passively in his chair. It was apparent that even if he thought that question was leading, he had no intention of voicing an objection, and so Sherlock would have to answer. Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath as he searched through his mind palace for something to calm himself down. He recalled the previous night, the feel of John's hands against his skin as he gently stroked his back and held him. Finally, he opened his eyes and began to speak.

The boy stood still as a marble statue and gave an account of the hell he lived through for ten months. Sherlock talked about how night after night he was dragged into the small office in Jim's flat where the man sat back and watched as he was stripped, tied down, beaten, and raped. He explained how eventually he felt as if his own body didn't belong to him anymore, that he was merely an object to be played with and abused for Jim's entertainment. He admitted that every cruel, invasive touch of Jim's hands made him wish he were dead, of how even after the police found him and brought him home, he still wanted to die. Throughout his testimony, Sherlock's deep, sonorous voice remained steady, but the pain was evident in every word he spoke. However, there was also a quiet strength in his voice, a sign of survival, of healing.

When Sherlock was finished, the attorney waited a few minutes to allow the audience to recover from the shock of what they just heard before she asked her final question.

"What brought you to Mr. Moriarty's residence on the night of May 29th?"

Feeling a bit drained, Sherlock sighed and said. "Earlier that day Jim tracked me down and told me that he had scheduled another session with a client and that he expected me to show up at his flat at a quarter to midnight. In order to make me comply, he made a few vague threats about harming my boyfriend, John. I snuck out in the middle of the night to meet Jim's demands because I wanted to keep John safe, but John noticed I was gone and followed me. Then Jim's men found us and snatched us both off the street. I did everything I could to convince Jim to let John go, but in spite of that he ordered one of his men to take John outside and shoot him. Thankfully the police arrived in time to prevent that."

As he spoke the last sentence, Sherlock willed himself to look directly at Moriarty. To his surprise, the man appeared genuinely confused. "Seriously?" Sherlock asked. "No one bothered to tell you? John's alive. He's sitting right up there."

Moriarty glanced up to where Sherlock was pointing and his mouth fell open in shock when he saw John sitting next to Lestrade in the balcony. John stared back at him with a murderous smile, a look that clearly said, "You're going to get what's coming to you, mother fucker."

The judge banged his gavel and dismissed the jury so that they could go to their designated room and decide on the verdict. Sherlock stepped down from the witness stand and found a vacant seat behind the prosecution table. He rested his head against the bench in front of him and breathed slowly, relieved that the most difficult part was over. After no more than five minutes of deliberation, the jury returned to the box. Everyone in the room held their breath until one of the jury members stood and declared the verdict.

"Guilty of all charges."

Though it was hardly appropriate etiquette for a courtroom, the audience reacted to the verdict with a quiet smattering of applause. This quickly died down, however, when people began to notice that something was very wrong. Rather than removing Moriarty from the courtroom, the armed guards walked towards the exits and stood in front of doors.

The judge stared at the guards and narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "What is the meaning of this?"

Moriarty relished in the terror that was slowly building in the room. "Her Majesty's High Court of Justice should screen its employees more carefully. You'd think something like being on the payroll of a dangerous criminal would stand out on a background check."

Members of the audience gasped and cringed away as Moriarty walked past them towards the defense table. Then the man stopped in front of the row of benches where Sherlock sat rigidly in his seat. Without looking up at him, Sherlock said calmly, "Yes? What do you want now?"

"That was quite a performance, darling. I believe most of the audience was moved to tears by your story. Such a brave little boy who's been through so much." Moriarty shook his head and tisked for dramatic effect. "I've enjoyed this immensely, but I'm afraid I can't stay and chat for very long. There's a plane waiting for me at the airport, but before I leave, I just want to give you one last reminder."

Moriarty's dark eyes glinted malevolently as he lashed out and struck Sherlock across the face, knocking him back against the seat of the bench. Before the boy could upright himself, Moriarty climbed on top of him. The man leaned forward and breathed in his ear, "Nothing has changed between us, dearie. You're _mine._ I _own_ you. I took that brilliant mind and beautiful body and broke you beyond repair. Your precious John thinks he can kiss it all better, but deep down you know that I'll always be right _there._ " He pressed a calloused fingertip against Sherlock's forehead. "You can't go to sleep at night without thinking of me. You can't be touched by someone else without thinking of me, of my hands on your body. I'm the reason you need to stick needles and blades in your arm, and one day you won't be able to take it anymore. One day you'll want to end it all, and I'll be waiting."

Barely able to breathe under the crushing weight, Sherlock whispered, "Sorry to disappoint you, but you'll be waiting until hell freezes over."

He felt Moriarty's hands close around his throat. They were in a room full of people, but Sherlock didn't bother trying to cry out for help. The guards had their weapons pointed at the petrified crowd, and it seemed unlikely that any help would come.

However, help did come. A crashing sound reverberated from the side exit door as several MI6 agents in black police gear stormed into the room. Apparently Mycroft had been watching through the security cameras the whole time. A look of panic flashed over Moriarty's face, but instead of letting go, he snarled and pressed harder against the boy's windpipe. Sherlock choked and gasped until finally Moriarty was pulled off of him and hauled away.

Onlookers swarmed around Sherlock as he lay still on the bench and tried to get his breath back. Those who were nearest checked him over and asked if he was okay, but all Sherlock said was, "John? Where's John? JOHN!"

"SHEROLCK!"

The crowd parted as John came running down the aisle, Sherlock managed to get to his feet and grab hold of John as he rushed towards him, and the two boys connected in a tight embrace. All at once, the random smattering of applause picked up again, growing louder this time. The judge banged his gavel and called for order, but to no avail. The loud clamor of clapping continued as Sherlock and John held onto each other, locked in their own little world.

In all the chaos, Lestrade found them and shouted over the din, "You two okay? Good God, that was intense. It took three people to keep John from jumping off the balcony."

Sherlock kept his arms wrapped around John and murmured. "John, you are expressly prohibited from jumping off of balconies or tall structures of any kind."

John clung on and responded, "That goes for both of us."

Once the commotion in the courtroom began to subside, Lestrade muttered. "Let's get you two out of here before the news reporters start swarming."

Sherlock and John slowly disentangled their limbs and allowed Lestrade to shepherd them out of the room through the side exit. It was over. They were going home.

* * *

The cluttered and cozy sitting room greeted them when Sherlock and John returned to the flat. Easing down onto the sofa, Sherlock immediately unraveled his tie and tossed it on the coffee table.

"I thought you were going to throw that into a vat of corrosive chemicals," John remarked.

"No need. I already know the effects of hydrochloric acid on various types of materials," Sherlock muttered.

John shook his head and smiled. "You said that just to annoy him."

Sherlock smirked. "Exactly."

"Well, you look good in a suit. You should wear them more often." Sherlock was silent for a long moment, and John grew uneasy. "Are you alright?"

Sherlock sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah. I just… don't know how to ask for these things."

"What do you need?"

Sherlock stared down at the carpet and bit his lip anxiously. Then instead of answering, he rose from the sofa and walked to the bedroom. After about a minute of sitting still, John got up and followed him. In the doorway he saw Sherlock removing his clothes and standing naked in front of the bed. The cruel, possessive word carved into the porcelain skin on his back made John shudder.

Sensing John behind him, Sherlock crawled underneath the covers. John was unsure of how to proceed, but he eventually made up his mind and stepped into the room and undressed as well. Joining Sherlock under the covers, he studied Sherlock's face and silently asked him what he wanted.

Sherlock looked back at him and whispered, "What you did last night... when you held me... it made me feel safe. I like feeling your hands on me. Your hands and no one else's."

Understanding what the boy needed from him, John stroked back Sherlock's dark curls and kissed his temple. Then he wrapped his arms around him and gently caressed Sherlock's back, his fingertips brushing over the scars. The marks were still vivid, but they would fade with time.

"I'm yours, John," Sherlock said softly. "I'm completely, entirely yours."

John breathed deeply, feeling his heart swell in his chest. "And I'm yours."


End file.
